Page 57 of Promise Me Sunshine

“Oh! That’s nice,” says the elderly gentleman sitting next to me on the bench.

A pack of middle schoolers on a field trip come to stand in front of the painting and now all that he and I can see are ponytails and snapbacks and headlocks and smiles.

He turns to really study me and I study him back. His eyes start to narrow. “How’d you know my name?”

“Me?” I point at myself and look behind me. “I don’t.”

“You used it. Just now.”

“I said Georgia,” I say, pointing toward the painting.

“Oh.” His feathers settle back into place. “Well, Georgia can’t hear you. But George can.” He points to himself.

“Nice to meet you, George.” I shake his hand.

“Sorry about the suspicion,” he says. “My son is paranoid about people scamming me because of my quote-unquoteadvanced age.”

“Probably wise,” I say. “People suck.”

He eyes me. The kids move away in a clump and I’m back to considering Georgia.

“So, what’s the verdict on new friends?” I ask him. “Worthit?”

“At your age? Of course.”

“Not at your age, though?”

He bats the idea away. “You live long enough, you’re the only one left.”

“That…sounds like hell.”

“That’s life,” he says matter-of-factly. “And I’m not trying to be a wise old man on a bench. I’m saying life is for those of us among the living, sure, but sometimes you’re better off dead.”

Well, George is a sour grape. Frankly I’m not sure he’s the best one for me to be talking to right now.

“Better off dead? Not really what ya wanna hear, George.”

He bats that hand in the air again. “Oh, don’t listen to me. Apparently I’m clinically depressed. Go be young. Playbaseball or something. Have a couple kids. Have an affair. Read some history books. You’ll be fine.”

I consider these suggestions. “Being clinically depressed doesn’t mean I shouldn’t listen to you.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not depressed. My wife died. I keep trying to tell them it’s different.”

I decide not to weigh in, leaning back on my palms, eyes on Georgia. “I’m sorry your wife died.”

He grunts. “Either she was going to die first, or I was.”

“Did she love Georgia O’Keeffe?”

“Huh?” He laughs a little. “Oh no. We don’t like art museums. We’re Yankees people. My son dragged me here ‘for enrichment,’ he says. Then I got lost.”

I’d been picturing him doing exactly what I’m doing, mourning a loved one, hoping to be closer to them by loving what they loved. But nope.

“Want me to help find your son?”

“No. I’m enjoying the quiet. Actually,” he says as he leans back against the wall behind us, situating himself, “I think I’ll close my eyes for a few.”

“Okay, George. It was really nice to meet you.”

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